


Nothing human is alien to me

by ineffabiel



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: assortment is the official collective noun for angels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-30
Updated: 2018-12-30
Packaged: 2019-09-30 18:15:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17228816
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ineffabiel/pseuds/ineffabiel
Summary: Crowley's unfettered access to Aziraphale's emails lead to the angel's redeployment, which results in both of them experiencing the world quite differently."Homo sum, humani nihil a me alienum puto", or "I am human, and I think nothing human is alien to me."





	Nothing human is alien to me

To actually see the place where the daily machinations of the divine plan were carried out would probably be an extreme disappointment to your average white-collar worker, reflected the angelic principality Poyel. To Poyel's mind, the Department of Principalities was a particularly gloomy floor in the great office building in the sky. Full uniform at all times, everyone had to wear a lanyard[1], you had to bring in your own milk and coffee. No retirement plan to speak of.

It was interesting, how ideas panned out. For countless aeons, Poyel had considered themselves a competent, reliable, self-motivated sort of being. That was until the higher ups had decided it was time to catch up with the innovations of Hell, as acquired from the innovations of humanity. They had manifested an open plan office space, complete with the trappings of contemporary human technology.

It was unclear what the intended outcome of this had been. The actual outcome, for Poyel at lease, seemed to be that most of their very large capacity for intelligent thought was straining to kill time; and as an immortal being, with an infinite caseload, this was a singularly unrewarding occupation. Poyel was not inclined to take any personal responsibility for this. There were only so many results that came from giving a cognisant life form a desk chair, and a computer that only had solitaire and a corporate inbox installed.

Poyel span in a gentle circle, gaze roaming the office space. Everyone looked fully engaged with their work [2]. Poyel looked at their computer screen, then made another few rotations in the chair.

Poyel looked at the computer again. A little icon announced a new email. Poyel clicked it desperately.

 

From: Netzach

To: Aziraphale

CC: Daniel; Hahasiah; Imamiah; Poyel; Mebahiah; Nanael; (…)

Subject: Redeployment

Attachment: Post Briefing: HBRWS 13:2 #94856182

Aziraphale,

I am writing to follow up my previous emails. It is unclear as to if you have seen them, given that I am yet to receive a response. As such, I have included several members of the team in this most recent attempt to contact you. This is to ensure that if there is a fault here it is with you, or the communications system at your post.

Please take this email as written confirmation of your redeployment. This is following the multiple previous discussions we have had on this subject. The objections you made have been noted, and strategies have been put in place which will help negate some of the most pressing concerns you shared.

However, I would like to clarify, as I have previously stated, that your reassignment has already been discussed by the senior management team and is non-negotiable. I have reattached the details of your new assignment here for your convenience.

I have previously offered a number of opportunities for you to return to headquarters, which I have not received a response to. As such, I have sent an invite to your calendar, and will expect to see you in my office later today.

Please confirm receipt of this email.

Kind regards,

Netzach.

 

Poyel made a noise through their teeth, which manifested specifically for this purpose. In Heaven, it echoed across multiple planes to fully encompass several different sentiments, drawing on languages long forgotten and concepts yet unarticulated. If Poyel had been on Earth, it would have sounded something like “Shi-it.”

Opening, the attachment, Poyel skimmed through it. Then Poyel made the same noise again, several times, at decreasing volume. Before they had finished reading, another email came through.

 

From: Aziraphale

To: Netzach

CC: Daniel; Hahasiah; Imamiah; Poyel; Mebahiah; Nanael; (…)

Subject: RE: Redeployment

Netzach,

Thank you for your email. Please consider this receipt.

Best wishes,

Aziraphale

 

The reply was immediate.

 

From: Netzach

To: Aziraphale

CC: Daniel; Hahasiah; Imamiah; Poyel; Mebahiah; Nanael; (…)

Subject: RE: RE: Redeployment

Aziraphale,

Thank you for confirming receipt of my previous email. However, please can you now confirm your acceptance of your redeployment, and your attendance at our scheduled meeting this afternoon.

Kind regards,

Netzach.

 

Poyel refreshed the inbox, and then looked around the office. Hahasiah caught Poyel's eye, and pulled a delighted face; their eyebrows lifted above wide eyes, mouth squeezed into a tight “ohhhh”.

 

From: Aziraphale

To: Netzach

CC: Daniel; Hahasiah; Imamiah; Poyel; Mebahiah; Nanael; (…)

Subject: RE: RE: RE: Redeployment

Attachment: Ongoing project #1; Ongoing project #2; Ongoing project #12; Ongoing project #15; Ongoing project #16; Ongoing project #17; Ongoing project #32; Ongoing project #41; Ongoing project #42; Ongoing project #44; Ongoing project #45; Case file: Crowley, A. J.

Netzach,

Apologies, I am not currently able to make this commitment. As I have previously outlined to you, my current workload is both extensive and specialised to a degree that handover would be difficult. Would it be possible to circle back to this suggestion in the future? I estimate a further 15 - 20 years would be sufficient to complete my current projects.

Best wishes,

Aziraphale

 

Someone in the office snorted. Poyel blinked at the computer screen, and then determinedly refused to give into the temptation to look at either Hahsiah, or towards Netzach's desk at the other end of the room.

Several minutes passed.

 

From: Netzach

To: Aziraphale

CC: Haniel, Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, (…)

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: Redeployment

Aziraphale,

Please be aware that documents “Ongoing Project #32” through to #45 were duplicates of the preceding documents. I assume that this is a filing error, and you are able to send me the correct files as part of your now due handover package.

Please attend my office. Now.

Please be aware that I have copied in the senior management team.

Netzach.

 

The office was very, very quiet. Then there were several simultaneous “dings” as the principalities who hadn't adhered to Netzach's “silent notification” doctrine were notified of an incoming email.

 

From: Aziraphale

To: Netzach

CC: Haniel, Gabriel, Michael, Uriel, (…)

Subject: RE: RE: RE: RE: RE: Redeployment (Out of Office Reply)

[Insert greeting here]

Thank you for your email. I am currently out of the office, and will be returning [enter return date here]. During this time I will have limited access to my emails.

If you need immediate assistance during my absence, please contact Netzach. Otherwise I will respond to your emails as soon as possible upon my return.

Kind regards,

[Enter your name here]

 

* * *

 

Elsewhere, blissfully unaware, Aziraphale was reading in his bookshop.

On his lap was a twelfth century copy of Al-Sufi's _The Book of Stars,_ and beside him were a stack of research papers in Arabic. Some of the papers had also made their way onto the floor, where they rested in what Aziraphale would vehemently deny was disarray.

Occasionally, the angel rummaged through the stack, or waved over some material from the floor, and made a note, to maintain the impression he was doing research. More honestly, he was indulging in a nostalgic sensory flashback from rereading a text he hadn't read in a long time; it was sending him back through the centuries to the Buyid Court.

Bracketing the stack of papers on either side were Crowley's legs, doing a passable job of keeping the remaining papers in place. Crowley himself was sitting on the back of the sofa like a delinquent, as Aziraphale had repeatedly said to him. On his knees was Aziraphale's laptop. Crowley had been clattering away on it for most of the afternoon, long after Aziraphale had stopped paying attention to him.

Music was playing through the Bluetooth speaker that nominally belonged to Aziraphale, but which Crowley had given him, and only Crowley actually knew how to use.

All was right with the world.

Then Crowley let out a contemplative hum.

“Hmm?” Aziraphale returned, therapeutically drawing out a constellation on tracing paper.

“Hmm,” Crowley repeated, sounding slightly more worried.

Aziraphale looked up at him, frowning. Concern came up to the starting post. “What is it?”

Eyes remaining fixed on the laptop screen, Crowley hummed again. “You know when you send something, thinking that you're being funny, but then you think maybe you misjudged it?”

Concern was joined by suspicion. “No,” said Aziraphale frankly.

“Ah,” Crowley said, and shut the laptop with a panicky sort of movement. Concern and suspicion were away.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said warningly. Crowley grinned at him, and suspicion took the lead.

“What have you done?” said Aziraphale, reaching for the laptop on instinct. Awkwardly shuffling along the sofa, trying to keep the papers balanced between his feet, Crowley held the laptop out of his reach.

“Well, you see, an email came up,” Crowley began, one hand flapping at the two Aziraphale was trying to stretch past him. “From Netzach, and I know you hate talking to your boss--“

“From Netzach?” Aziraphale said, aghast. Suspicion lapped concern. “Not about being reassigned again?”

“Er, yes. And I thought I'd do you a favour and put him off. Like I did last time?”

Aziraphale considered this, pausing while looking at Crowley with narrowed eyes. It was true that Crowley had fielded Netzach, and his office, quite successfully the previous twelve times that they'd tried to contact him. Aziraphale hadn't got the hang of emails; they always seemed to end up several pages long, like his texts, which Crowley said wasn't the fashion for electronic epistles. Concern took back a little ground.

Trying to look confident, Crowley went on. “So I thought I'd reply, but I think we might have pushed it a bit--”

“We?” said Aziraphale sharply.

“Well--”

That was when Aziraphale heard a slight, stinging buzz, followed by a massive, unearthly clash of music. Suspicion and concern left the tracks, by vaulting the railings, and disappeared into a fleeing crowd.

Crowley went white, eyes widening in alarm. “Angel--”

In one abrupt, panicky motion, Aziraphale grabbed Crowley's legs and shoved the already off-balance demon off the back of the sofa. The demon didn't make a sound; at least, not vocally. The sound of his head hitting the wall however, was loud and painful. Not to be outdone, there was the crack of snapping plastic from the computer as Crowley landed on it.

Aziraphale had launched himself from the sofa, about as fast as he had ever moved in this corporation, wings snapping out with blinding grace. He spread them as far as he could, hoping it would hide Crowley's infernal presence behind him, and perhaps deter whoever was coming down the celestial staircase. The staircase was still manifesting, but Aziraphale hurried to clamber on to it, taking the steps two at a time.

As anyone who has ever attempted to do so can say, it is quite difficult to push someone up a flight of stairs, particularly if that someone is the descending wrath of one of Heaven's heavy hitters. But Aziraphale, doggedly picking up speed, was willing to give it his best effort.

The angel had just enough time to consider how much worse he was making the situation for himself, before he collided with an avenging archangel on their majestic visitation to the Earthly realm.

It was likely Netzach had not anticipated this, and that was probably the reason for Aziraphale's success in knocking him back up the stairs. There was a dizzy, painful moment, when both Aziraphale and the archangel blurred between one plane of existence and the next. Then the staircase and its occupants vanished from the bookshop.

In Netzach's office, Aziraphale opened his eyes more out of habit than necessity. Netzach's scorching, furious celestial form contorted and raged across multiple layers of Aziraphale's senses.

“ _Aziraphale!_ ”, blazed the pulsating corporeal energy.

“I am so sorry, sir,” Aziraphale said, because it seemed like a reliable way to start.

“ _Sorry?!”_ the fathomless crackle raged.

“I didn't want to keep you waiting, sir,” offered Aziraphale, i n what he hoped was a suitably meek manner.

The form radiated disbelief. Possibly Netzach thought a more tangible form would better express the depths of their scepticism and anger, because after a few moments the archangel resolved itself into the shape of a human.

“ _To keep me waiting?”_ Netzach hissed.

Aziraphale nodded mutely. Then, for want of anything else to say, he repeated, “I'm very sorry, sir.”

Netzach regarded him with rank disbelief. Aziraphale looked back at him. After what would have been several seconds of this, had they been on Earth, Aziraphale remembered that he had what Crowley had called “a resting bitch face”, even when Aziraphale was confident that his expression was diplomatically neutral.

Whenever Crowley brought this up, Aziraphale usually ignored him.. Trying to rearrange his face into something more respectful now, under extreme pressure, posed a challenge.

“What are you doing to your corporations face?” Netzach asked, scowling. Aziraphale's relief that he'd stopped shouting in italics was enough that he produced on reflex a rather weak smile.

“I'm feeling quite nervous, sir,” Aziraphale offered, both because it was true, and because it was probably what Netzach wanted to hear.

“I should hope so,” the archangel said brusquely. “After the strategies you've been using, in what I can only describe as wilful dereliction of duty.”

“I don't mean to disagree with you, sir,” Aziraphale said promptly, and Netzach made a frustrated noise.

“And yet, here we are,” the archangel growled.

“But I was acting with only my responsibilities, as ordained by our office and mandated by your will, in mind--”

“It has been twenty years since you were originally called, Aziraphale,” said Netzach, icily.

“Only twenty, sir? A negligible time in the scheme of the divine work,” Aziraphale said, contriving to look apologetic. “However, from the human perspective it is an almost invaluable length; before my summons, I had instigated several extensive projects which are coming into fruition over the next decade or so. It is highly specialised, and so I--”

“Yes, yes, so you have said,” Netzach said, waving a hand in frustration. Aziraphale frowned. He'd just tried the lines that he'd given Crowley, to use last time the demon had been recalled to Hell. They'd have to work on recycling each others justifications.

“Irregardless, Aziraphale, the time has come. I was concerned that you would resist returning to Heaven, to have the necessary alterations made to your corporation, but here you are.”

“Alterations?”

“For your new task. Surely you have read the briefings?”

Aziraphale nodded, and Netzach's eyes gleamed at the blatant lie.

“Perhaps not the most recent versions,” Aziraphale offered weakly.

“Then it will be a most rewarding experience for you to stretch your capabilities with a new challenge,” Netzach replied. The tight anger in their voice had been supplanted by unmistakable glee.

“Sir?” said Aziraphale, brusquely tamping down on a rush of panic to keep his voice steady.

“It is not dissimilar to work you have done previously. A few thousand years ago I believe, by the dominant contemporary human calendar. I can arrange for refresher training, should you feel you require it.”

Divine training was notorious for it's length. Aziraphale considered the ominous reality of going into a new post completely blind. Then he thought of his bookshop, the abandoned copy of _The Book of Stars_ , and Crowley.

“Will I be maintaining my current location, sir?”

“That is at your discretion.”

“Then I am confident that I am sufficiently prepared to return to Earth immediately.” Aziraphale hesitated, wondering if he'd shown his hand. Netzach made no comment.

“In that case, I will make the alterations to your corporation myself. Now. I find I have little faith in your ability to report to the correct team of your own volition.”

“It has been several years since I was in the department, sir,” Aziraphale replied, meaninglessly. It was a stalling technique he had learned from Crowley. Then he remembered again what the demon had said about his face, half-heartedly dipped is gaze from Netzach's eyes to look at the ground.

“Yes, Aziraphale. And don't think that your absence has gone unnoticed.” With that final, ominous remark, Netzach waved a hand in Aziraphale's direction.

Aziraphale had experienced changes to his corporation before, and they usually didn't come with much in the way of physical sensation. But this time, the angel had the uncomfortable sensation of physically feeling, well, everything. Things he hadn't thought to feel in a long time; hair rising on his arms, the strain of his joints where they were bearing weight. An uncomfortable, crawling shudder went down his spine, and when Aziraphale tried to disconnect from it, to push the experience away, he found that he couldn't.

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, in a gust of air, and twisted his hands together. He wished, violently, that he'd actually read some of the emails on his redeployment. Aziraphale tried to think how he could ask what was going on without compounding an already precarious situation.

“Sir, how long is this redeployment going to last?” he said, shocked to hear that there was alarm audible in his voice.

“Oh,” Netzach said, with a second, dismissive wave. A staircase came into existence at Aziraphale's feet. “I estimate another 15 to 20 years would be sufficient.”

 

* * *

 

 

Crowley slunk back to the bookshop several hours after Aziraphale's abrupt departure. This meant he returned many orders of magnitude slower than he had exited. Crowley's departure was almost as fast as Aziraphale's, which was saying something when you think that the angel had teleported, and Crowley had gone out scuttling backwards on his arse out the backdoor and over a wall.

Crowley climbed over the back wall, reassuring himself that he was doing it with a lot more dignity than when he'd gone over it in the other direction. From the outside, the shop looked unscathed. The backdoor was unlocked, as he had left it on departure [3]. Crowley closed the door behind him, and cautiously edged through the kitchen. What he could see was much as he had left it. The glass panes of the kitchen door were reassuringly whole, the walls devoid of scorch marks, and so on.

Less encouraging was the faint moans coming from inside the shop itself. Crowley reached out, very, very slowly, with his supernatural senses. To his shock, he detected nothing. As if the pings from his infernal, and by association ethereal, radar had been sucked into a void.

Crowley opened his mouth to call out Aziraphale's name, and then caught himself. His legs had started to do that unreasonable shaking human bodies were inclined to at inconvenient times. Stumbling in to the door, and then finding a similar issue with his arms, which tingled as he tried to get his hands to the door handle, Crowley let out a hiss of frustration and forcibly got a hold of himself. Ramming the human impulses of his corporation aside, and with it the fleetingly unpleasant sensation of disconnection, Crowley got the door open.

Aziraphale was laying across his sofa, arms and legs dramatically splayed out in every direction, muttering and moaning to himself. He had a bottle in one hand, and a glass in the other. The glass clearly hadn't seen any use for it's intended purpose, but the bottle was nearly empty; there were a row of unopened bottles lined up on the coffee table.

“You are such a diva,” Crowley said, relaxing within himself and gratefully feeling a heady wave of relief wash over him. “What is wrong with you?”

“Crowle-ey,” Aziraphale said, jerking upright. He paled, swayed, and overbalanced off of the sofa.

Crowley snorted, then walked over and picked the angel up off the floor. The glass had escaped harm, but what had remained of Aziraphale's red wine was now lost to the carpet and the angel's previously blue jacket.

Crowley was about to tut at over it, when he was distracted by Aziraphale successfully getting both arms around his neck, and then dropping all his weight back down onto the sofa. Crowley let out a squawk at the sudden, bruising pressure, and went down on top of him.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale repeated, loudly, from their new vantage point. The angel's face was about half a centimetre from Crowley's, but not very well aligned; he was speaking almost directly up Crowley's nose.

“Crowley,” he said again, very earnestly. “I am so glad to see you, and I am going to kill you.”

“Right,” Crowley said, after a pause. This was far more emotional conviction than he usually expected of Aziraphale, whichever sentiment the angel ultimately opted for.

Aziraphale nodded, which crashed their foreheads together painfully. While Aziraphale moaned piteously, Crowley tried to wriggle his way upright. He was surprised to find Aziraphale's arms remained locked behind him. Leaning back didn't get a useful response, so he resorted ducking down out of the embrace and awkwardly shuffling to freedom.

“Why?” said Aziraphale mournfully, as Crowley attempted to rearrange himself. This was made difficult by the fact that when Crowley tried to sit on an empty bit of cushion, Aziraphale moved his legs into the space block him.

“Why what?”

After a few incredulous seconds in which Crowley got off of and then sat down on Aziraphale's roaming limbs several times, Crowley half lifted and half pushed the angel's lower half off the sofa to make room, which Aziraphale seemed momentarily stumped by.

“Why-y?” repeated Aziraphale balefully. “Why everything? Why Crowley?”

Vengefully, and with extremely hazardous hand-eye coordination, Aziraphale managed to get his legs up on to Crowley's lap.

“I don't want to talk to you,” the angel said, and then tried to take a drink from his empty glass. “Go away.”

“Okay, I'll go,” said Crowley, patting Aziraphale's knee reassuringly.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale replied seriously, frowning at the wineglass. “Did you drink this?”

“Unfortunately, no,” said Crowley. He picked up a bottle from the coffee table. “I have a lot of catching up to do. How about this; every time you want to have a drink, I'll fill up your glass for you. But we've only got one glass, so you have to let me drink it. Sound fair, angel?”

Aziraphale gave him a sudden, radiant smile, in that alarmingly fond and confidential way the highly inebriated can sometimes do. “Perfectly, dear.”

Feeling disconcerted, Crowley looked at the bottle and was surprised to find it one of the cheap bottles he himself occasionally brought round specifically to wind Aziraphale up. They normally found themselves to be significantly older and more expensive by the time they were opened.

It matured considerably, and changed in country of origin, as Crowley unscrewed it. Aziraphale helpfully held the glass out to him at a 45 degree angle, so Crowley reached out and tilted the angel's hand upright, and then held both him and the glass steady.

Watching Crowley pour, Aziraphale sighed. “I am glad you're here. Even if it is your fault.”

“Er. Good?” Crowley tried. “What's my fault?” He took the glass from Aziraphale, who allowed this without protest.

“Oh, everything. The wine, that's you. Because it's not me, cert- surtent- surtently, surtently not me.”

“Mm,” said Crowley, sipping slowly. Aziraphale nodded. “...Anything else?”

“Me, this is your fault. More important. Important than the wine. Isn't it?” said Aziraphale.

“You are more important than the wine, angel,” agreed Crowley.

“Well, yes,” said Aziraphale, as if Crowley was the one moving the conversation forward with the efficiency and clarity of a cabinet minister asked a direct question in the commons. “It's what you've done, that's more important to the wine. Than to me. What?”

Crowley, thoroughly amused, grinned at him unhelpfully. Aziraphale's consternation fell away, and he smiled back, open and dazzling. Unnerved again, Crowley took another long drink from Aziraphale's glass and emptied it.

“That's mine now, please,” Aziraphale said, as if he'd caught Crowley out. The glass exchanged hands.

“Help me out here,” said Crowley, as he poured out some more wine, once again holding Aziraphale's hand to keep the glass still. “You went Upstairs? What did they say?”

That's what I've been saying to you. You sent those emails, didn't you? Well, I know I shouldn't have let you. And now I'm in trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?” Crowley looked Aziraphale up and down, in a quick, nervous once-over There wasn't anything obvious; and the angel was here, wasn't he? How bad could it be?

Aziraphale shifted, minutely, under Crowley's gaze. “Well,” he said quietly. “Look.” Aziraphale blinked, very slowly and deliberately. Nothing happened.

“Nothing happened,” Crowley observed.

“Exactly, Crowley. I just tried to, to, what's it. Sober up. _Nothing happened._ ”

Understanding began to dawn. Crowley reached out again, as he had in the kitchen, and tried to find Aziraphale's ethereal signature. It should have been inescapable, sitting as close as they were.

Crowley tried to run north, and bring understanding back down below the horizon.

“No. No way. You'd be a mess, more of a mess than you are now, if they'd-- If you'd-- Oh, something, _angel--”_

“It's not permanent,” Aziraphale said, and took a large drink from the glass he'd failed to give back to Crowley. The latter, dazed, didn't begrudge him it, and Crowley instead drank deeply from the bottle.

“Good, that's--” Crowley trailed off, and realised that his hand not occupied with the bottle had, on its own authority, clutched Aziraphale's. He tried to move it, but Aziraphale didn't let go. “For how long?”

“Two decades,” said Aziraphale miserably. “Maybe one and a half, if I'm lucky.”

“ _Twenty years?_ What do they expect you to do down here, like this, for twenty years?”

“Be not forgetful,” Aziraphale intoned, “to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares. Ahah. Awares.” He tried to take another drink, and missed his mouth. This was fine, because he also didn't tilt the glass.

“Well done for getting all that out it one go,” Crowley said supportively.

“I've been looking at it. For hours. Waiting for you,” said Aziraphale, contriving to sound both snide and upset. He fished his hand down the back of the sofa cushions, and produced some crumpled paper.

“I pruh- pres- I bet you didn't read this when they sent it either,” the angel said, passing it over.

“Well, no, but they're not my orders, angel,” Crowley said, scanning the first page.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale said quietly. “Crowley, what am I going to do?”

Crowley looked up at him. Aziraphale looked back at him, his expression badly concealing that he was both very drunk and very frightened.

Taking another drink, trying to wash down his body's useless human heart that had just jumped into his throat, Crowley squeezed Aziraphale's hand. “You'll be fine. Nobody's done anything to me, and I'm not going anywhere.”

Aziraphale blinked at him. “What? What do you mean? The Arrangement won't work with me like this; I can't help anyone like this.”

Within the privacy of his own head, Crowley was briefly disappointed; he had thought they were past this. He had hoped anyway.

He shook his head. “Well, you can just owe me. Twenty years isn't that long, not to us, right? That is, if you can stand owing me.”

“Of course I can,” said Aziraphale, again as if Crowley was being the difficult one. “I trust you. But Crowley, twenty years?”

Crowley, busy trying to reconcile several different lines of anxiety produced in a very short space of time, almost missed the question.

“Angel,” he said weakly. “Just shut up. Keep your glass,” here he leaned over to top it up, “I think we're both going to need to be more drunk for this.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Several hours later, and they were both significantly worse for wear. However, Aziraphale was drinking with a handicap. Though they were both equally drunk, he was in the unfortunate situation of being not only royally pissed, but utterly exhausted. Having not experienced this for a long time, he couldn't quite comprehend why he was feeling quite so delirious.

“Angel? Azzziraphale. Azzziraphale, what are you doing?” Crowley said curiously, from somewhere far away. “Are you falling _asssleep_?”

“Issit? Is that what's happened?” Aziraphale said interestedly. He couldn't see, which internal audit suggested was because his eyes were closed and buried in Crowley's shirt.

“You _are_ , that's amazzzing. Can't remember the last time I saw you tired.” Crowley was laughing, which was doing interesting things in his chest and to his consonant plosives.

“Mmm,” said Aziraphale agreeably.

“Wait, wait, if you're going to sssleep. You'll be sso hung over tomorrow,” said Crowley, poking him. “Sssober up firsst.”

“Can't,” Aziraphale mumbled.

“Oh, oh right,” Crowley said, possibly to himself. There was a pause, and Aziraphale waited.

Beneath him, Crowley moved slightly, and Aziraphale could just tell it was the disappointing self= awareness of sobriety. The angel groaned resentfully into Crowley's stomach.

Crowley laughed again, but softer. He sat up, carefully, and when Aziraphale didn't take the opportunity to move with him, reached down to manhandle him up into a sitting position. Aziraphale leaned onto his shoulder, and Crowley gently pushed him back with one hand, and supported him at the shoulder with the other.

“Hey,” Crowley said. “I don't know what this will feel like if someone else does it for you.”

It seemed a bizarre thing to say, as if Aziraphale was supposed to ask Crowley to make the experience more comfortable, if he could. As if Crowley wasn't going to try anyway. Or as if Aziraphale was going to tell Crowley off it did hurt. As if Crowley couldn't do whatever he liked, with Aziraphale like this. Or with Aziraphale at any time, really. This seemed, even in the angel's current state, profoundly unutterable. So he just nodded.

He wondered if it was going to be awkward that he was essentially sitting in Crowley's lap once they were both sober, but only with dim interest. As if it was going to happen to a relative he didn't know particularly well.

Crowley half-smiled at him, reassurance in a visible shoving match with nervousness for dominance. There was a slight, unnecessary brush of fingertips at the pulse point on Aziraphale's throat; and then the strange fizzy sensation of alcohol metabolising very quickly out of the blood stream.

Aziraphale swayed for a moment, his eyes shut against dizziness. Crowley's hands tightened on his shoulders.

“Are you okay?” Crowley asked.

Opening his eyes, with the full clarity of the recently sober, Aziraphale was alarmed by a number of things.

Point the first, the rapid and crushing wave of embarrassment, which, point the second, his current lack on angelic abilities meant he couldn't just put to one side. Both of these were rapidly superseded by point the third, how close he and Crowley were. Point the fourth, that Crowley was still touching him, which abruptly seemed very important. Moving quickly to the fifth, which was that he could see Crowley's eyes, which were almost as electric and inescapable as his hands.

Finally the sixth, which was really the second, and important enough that it bore repeating; that Aziraphale had felt like this before, and had before the capacity to constrict and contain it. To cut off this rising tide, reflexively, unconsciously, through long habit, and now. But right now, he couldn't. Right now, now all he wanted to do was just-- Stay here, maybe. Or sway, just a little bit closer.

Whatever dangerous thing Crowley may have seen in Aziraphale face clearly didn't satisfy him. The demon leaned back, extricating himself, and stood up.

“Come on,” he said, “Let's get you into bed, angel.”

Aziraphale got to his feet unthinkingly, grappling with the rapid, uncontrollable pace of his newly unfettered emotions. He looked at Crowley again, who was trying to get them both over the alcoholic debris of wine bottles without breaking anything.

With unabating joy and consuming despair, and the absolute certainty that this was the first coherent sentiment to pass through his brain all evening, Aziraphale thought:

_I am absolutely fucked._

 

* * *

 

 

  1. For what purpose, was the Almighty's guess; everyone had been working with the same colleagues for at least six thousand years, and nowhere in heaven required a door pass. In fact, nowhere in heaven had any doors.[return to text]  


  2. Appearances, as we know, being very deceiving. [return to text]  


  3. Aziraphale was very conscientious about locking up the shop, including both its doors, and less conventional entrances and exits. Crowley had asked him about it once, given that the last person to trespass against Aziraphale's property has exited via an upstairs window, of her own volition, and spent the rest of the evening delivering the contents of her rucksack back to their original owners. Aziraphale had replied that he had to do it, or he'd invalidate his contents insurance. The conversation was a ongoing source of amusement for Crowley[4]. [return to text]  


  4. Incidentally, it was also an ongoing expense for Aziraphale. It was revealed, once Crowley had stopped laughing, that the demon's Bentley wasn't insured, because, as Crowley had very reasonably explained, obviously it wasn't. So for the last few decades, it was Aziraphale who was paying Crowley's third party coverage, and thus keeping Hell's representative on earth on the right side of the law.




 


End file.
